I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: During a night out with Abby, Ziva proves that she is no weakling. Hangman Prize for Sherry!


"Hey there, little darlin'!"

Ziva looked up to see a tall and muscular man smirking down at her. He spoke with a southern drawl and wore a ridiculous-looking cowboy hat. In his hand he held a half-empty beer bottle

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked in a cool tone.

"I'm speakin' to you and your little friend here," he said, nodding to Abby. The Goth girl was situated across from Ziva and the two were sharing after-work drinks at a local bar. They hadn't expected to be accosted by an extra from _Urban Cowboy_.

The man smiled a toothy smile as his eyes looked over the pair. "How would you two like to leave this place on the arm of a real man?"

Ziva and Abby exchanged glances of disgust and amusement. "Perhaps you should find us one," Ziva suggested.

Rather than taking the hint to buzz off, the cowboy wannabe grabbed a chair from a nearby table and placed it beside Ziva's chair. "I like a girl with a healthy sense of humor," he said as he squeezed uncomfortably close beside her. She could smell the unattractive scents of cheap beer and tobacco clinging to the intrusive man. "Either of you girls interested in a threesome?" he asked as he leaned in closer against Ziva.

The Mossad officer was having none of it. "Please leave us alone," she said in an even, but curt, tone. "We are not interested in having sex with you."

"No need to be so cold, darlin'," he said, the annoying smirk still plaster across his face. "Lots of women would be flattered to catch my attention."

"Then I suggest you go give _them_ your attention," she hissed, pushing his large body off of her. "And I am not your 'darlin,'" she said with a mock southern drawl.

"She always like this or is it just her time of the month?" he asked Abby, who had been watching the scene unfold with great amusement.

"What time of the month?" Ziva asked.

"She just doesn't like pushy, egotistical perverts," Abby told him. "And unless you want that beer bottle shove into a very uncomfortable place, I suggest you mosey on to another girl."

The cowboy's lips pursed as he studied the women. It was obvious he wasn't happy with their responses, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. His pride would never allow it. "Well, it seems that I wandered over into the bitch zone," he proclaimed loudly and snidely. "Here I thought I'd do a good deed and compliment a couple of dogs, and you just can't appreciate it."

"Dogs?" Ziva repeated. Even _she_ knew what that meant. "If you value your life, you will apologize to both of us and then be on your pathetic way."

Cowboy stood up and leaned down to the pair. "Arf, arf, bitch!"

"That is it! Hold my hands down, Abby!" Ziva yelled.

"I think you mean 'hold me back.'"

"Whatever! Just do it!"

"Oh, you think I'm going to be afraid of you, little darlin'?" Cowboy asked with glee. He was happy to see that he had succeeded in angering Ziva. Served her right for not immediately swooning over him the moment he sat down!

Ziva grabbed him roughly by the collar of his shirt and yanked his head down. "You should be,' she whispered to him. "Now either apologize to us or we can take this outside."

Cowboy pulled himself from her grasp, his upper lip curled into a sneer. "I don't fight women. It's not fair, them being so physically weak compared to me."

Abby crossed her arms, an eyebrow raised. "I think he's scared," she told Ziva. "He's afraid that if he fights you, you'll kick his ass."

"Among other anatomical parts," Ziva added with a pointed look to the man's groin area.

Being turned down by two beautiful women was bad enough; to have them insinuate that even one of them could take you in a physical fight was downright insulting. He didn't fight women, but he was happy to make an exception if it meant putting them in their place. "Fine then," he snapped. "Outside. You and me. We'll see who kicks whose ass."

"Gladly. And when I have you pleading for mercy, you will sincerely apologize to us."

"And when I make you look like the foolish bitch you are," Cowboy countered, "you and your tattooed little friend will give me a pretty little lap dance."

* * *

It didn't take long for a victor to emerge from the scuffle.

"Let me go!" Cowboy squealed as Ziva held his arm twisted behind his back. He was on his knees in the filthy alleyway, the hand of his free arm pressed palm-down on the ground as he wriggled in pain.

"Are you going to apologize?" Ziva asked, pulling his arms further behind him.

He grunted. "Crazy bitch," he mumbled softly. Not softly enough.

"If you do not want me to pull this arm out of its socket, I suggest you give us a quick, but heartfelt, apology," the Mossad woman said, grabbing the man by his hair (the cowboy hat had fallen off when Ziva had kicked his feet out from under him).

"I'm sorry!" he screamed, no longer able to bear it.

"And what are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry that I called you bitches!"

"And dogs," Abby added.

"And dogs!"

"Is that all?" Ziva purred, loosening her grip on the limb.

"I'm sorry that I even approached your fucking table!" He meant it, though not in as an apology to them. Still, the girls were content.

"Let this be a lesson to you," Ziva warned as she pulled him to his feet. "Now I suggest you go find another bar, because I never want to see your face again."

Cowboy snatched up his fallen hat, shooting both women a withering glare. He knew better than to offer up a retort—though the word "psycho" was distinctly said in a hushed tone—as he sauntered away from the bar.

"That was awesome!" Abby gushed as she wrapped Ziva up in a tight hug. "You almost had him crying!"

"I enjoyed taking him down a niche," she said smugly. "Perhaps in the future he will think twice before pestering innocent women."

"Come on," Abby said as she slung an arm around her companion's shoulders, "let me buy the ass-kicking woman a victory drink."


End file.
